


i'll see you in everything

by deadlight_s (scamsHan)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Everyone lives/Nobody dies, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/pseuds/deadlight_s
Summary: After Bill leaves Derry, Mike sees him again.And Again.And Again.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier (Implied)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	i'll see you in everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [playedwright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/playedwright/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for my best friend and cohort MARS (playedwright)! They are absolutely fantastic and if you haven't had a chance to check out their fics you should fix that IMMEDIATELY!! Anyway, hope you enjoy!!

The first time Mike saw Bill’s face again after he watched him be swiftly carried out of Derry in the back of the Denbrough’s minivan at the age of fourteen, was in a dream.

They hung from a cliff. One of Bill’s hands gripped tightly on the precipice, Mike dangled from the other. The dream would vary as time went on. Sometimes it would be raining. Other times there would be sun. One thing remained unchanged: they held onto each other as if the other could fall apart at any minute.

_Hold on, Mikey. I’m going to pull us up._

He never pulled them up. The dream always ended in the same way.

Bill’s grip on the cliff began to slip, his fingernails dragging against the ground. Mike felt himself dropping.

_It’s ok, Mikey, just hold on!_

Mike wasn’t stupid. He knew what was happening. 

_I’m pulling you down. You’ve gotta let me go!_

Bill’s grip tightened.

_I’m not f-f-fucking doing that!_

Mike heard the scrape of Bill’s nails across the ground.

_We both can’t die here._

Bill tried to pull up with one arm, it won’t help. Mike refused to let Bill die because of him. Mike refused to pull him down. 

Mike made the decision for both of them, and let go.

  
  


**~**

The next time he saw Bill again was 15 years later at a Barnes & Noble in Portland. Bill was on tour for his newest novel _The Glowing_. It was an amazing feat, he didn’t think Derry would let him get this far. Perhaps it was a cruel ploy on Derry’s part, dangling Bill in front of him like this.

“Who am I making this out to?” Bill asked as Mike handed him his well read copy of _The Glowing._

“It’s Mike,” he paused. “I mean that’s my name. Mike. My name’s Mike.” 

If the ground opened beneath Mike’s feet and swallowed him whole, it would be too generous.

Bill continued on. This wasn’t his first awkward fan interaction and it certainly wouldn’t be his last “Are you from around here, Mike?”

“Ah, no. I mean, I’ve lived in Maine my whole life, but I’m from up ways, near Bangor.”

“Bangor, that’s quite the drive. Surprised anyone would make the trip for little ol’ me,” Bill said, having the audacity to wink at him. Mike wanted to snap the bones in his fingers.

“Well, I’ve always been a big fan.”

Bill looked up at him, peering at him from behind his glasses, “Pardon me for this, but I could’ve sworn that I know you from somewhere. Have you been to signings in the past?”

Mike wondered if he knew. Did Bill actually recognize him or did he just have the errant feeling that something wasn’t right? Was he remembering how Mike would let him draw on his arms with markers or how they shared sandwiches on Mike’s back porch? Did Bill know about the ways in which Mike melted under his gaze?

Mike didn’t know why wondered about that part. It’s not like Bill knew about the way he wormed into the place Mike had carved for him in his chest. Even when he did know who he was.

“Sorry,” Mike said, looking down at the table where Bill sat. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“Apologies,” Bill said, signing the book and handing it back to Mike “You just look-”

“I have one of those faces,” Mike took the book from his hands. “Thank you. I really loved it. The book. I really loved the book.”

Mike wondered if Bill could tell that he meant _You. I really loved you._

Bill smiled “You’d be one of the few.”

When Mike got back to his truck and opened the front cover, Bill’s handwriting burned itself into his eyes.

_Mike, thanks for reading! Love, Bill D._

Mike traced the autograph with his fingertips, following the loops and swirls of Bill’s cursive. He closed the book and crossed his arms, holding it to his chest.

**~**

By the time Bill and Mike saw each other at the Jade of The Orient, his copy of _The Glowing_ had become tattered after frequent reading. The spine had become cracked, the pages were creased from being dog-eared.

Bill flipped through it as Mike slipped hallucinogens into his water.

“This is a well loved copy,” Bill said.

“Well, I was always a big fan,” Mike handed him the glass of water.

Bill opened to the front cover “Did you come to a signing?”

“No, it was a promotional copy. One of the kinds you sign in bulk.”

“I signed your name, Mikey,” He took a sip from the glass.

“Hm. Funny that.”

“Why are you lying to me?”

Mike didn’t have to answer that, for the drugs had finally begun to take hold. Bill had seen the Ritual of Chud and Mike had kept his secret.

“I saw it,” Bill said when he came to. He had the front of Mike’s shirt in a vice grip. It would be so easy for him to lean in, to let himself be pulled in by Bill. To be held. To just say _I’m sorry. I love you_. Mike resisted the urge.

Mike didn’t resist when they killed the god damned thing. Bill found him so swiftly, so easily. This time, Mike let himself be pulled, his forehead resting against Bill’s. _I love you. I love you._ There was relief in that. Solace.

Mike said _I love you_ , and meant it.

**~**

Mike was scheduled to see Bill’s face again in exactly two hours and thirty nine minutes.

The last time he had seen Bill’s face was three months ago, a photo of him snapped by an errant paparazzo under a headline reading _Author Bill Denbrough and Actress Audra Phillips Announce Divorce._ It was an unflattering picture, taken as Bill was walking out of some coffee shop that Mike didn’t know the name of. He was wearing flannel pajama pants, a trench coat and flip flops. It was 85 degrees in Los Angeles that day.

The difference between this gap in time and the 27 year long one that had served as some sort of tortured prelude for the life that Mike could finally begin is that they had spoken some. Not much, but some. Which is more than Mike expected, if he were being honest. While his time in Derry ended on some sort of triumphant note, he realized early that any ending at all would’ve been at least marginally better than his current situation. That he would still come out of it tattered, worn and unskilled at carrying on meaningful conversation.

Despite this, he still tried to speak. Enough so, that it led him here in the very same Los Angeles that Bill was divorced in.

_I’m driving along the West Coast._ _Heard some nice things about Oregon._ He remembered how he mumbled the last part into the receiver, _Oregon_ sounding slightly squished and barely recognizable as a word in the English language. It didn’t matter, Bill stopped listening when Mike said _West Coast._

_You should come by._

It had been one year since they killed It. One year since the seven of them had reunited, and the missing pieces of the six that had forgotten had been pressed into place. They had left the fight tired, but whole.

Mike hadn’t forgotten, for him, there was nothing left to replace. No cracks to be fixed. He had simply rusted, fully formed. There was some relief to the ending, to the evil being defeated. But it was small, fleeting. Preparing for Its return was like filling a box with tools. His head was filled with theories, legends, ways to batten down the hatches in preparation for an impending storm. But, eventually, the clouds dissipate, rays of sunlight pierce through. Wars end. The project gets finished. The box remains. It was gone, and for the seven of them Derry went with it.

Now it’s just him.

It’s just him, in the same Los Angeles that Bill got divorced in. He will be seeing him again in two hours and thirty nine minutes.

He decided to kill the time in a barber shop.

Mike tried changing. Tried believing that he was a person who had a chance to change. He let himself go in places. The hard edges of his abs morphed into soft curves. His strong jaw was now hidden behind a thick, slightly unkempt beard. His hair grew out.

“It’s long enough to loc,” the woman behind the chair said. Her thin, nimble fingers laced in his coils.

He stared at the mirror across from him. He sees two strangers. The stylist, who’s hair was tightly braided to her scalp, runs her fingers through his hair, appraising. Long enough to loc. To change. To do something new.

“Just cut it low. To the scalp,” Mike said.

“You want it all gone?” She looked up at their shared reflection in the mirror, her eyebrow raised.

He looked right through her “Yes.”

She shrugged. “Ok,” she said as she went to grab the clippers. “Shame. You’ve got some good hair. It’s thick, strong.”

“It usually doesn’t get like this.” 

He wished he felt something as he saw the strands hit the tile floor. He wished he could look back in the mirror and still see a stranger. Now, once again, it’s just him.

If Bill had any suspicion that Mike had cut his hair before seeing him, he didn’t voice it when Mike showed up at his door exactly one minute before the scheduled time he was meant to be there. Bill didn’t say much when he finally saw him. His first instinct was to wrap up as much of Mike as possible in his arms. Mike paid him back by engulfing him entirely.

Mike was out of practice when it came to touch. Another thing that didn’t magically change after Its heart was crushed. He had begun to realize that very few things did, if he really thought about it. He doesn’t. He had to pretend that all of this was good for something.

What he couldn’t pretend, however, was that his skin didn’t vibrate in the places where Bill’s hands ran along his back. He couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t an all encompassing need for Mike to bury his face in the crook of Bill’s neck and inhale.

Bill pulled away before Mike could get the chance. Mike chose to believe that this was Bill’s subconscious way of protecting from the danger of himself.

Bill didn’t let him go, pulling back but keeping his hands on Mike’s shoulders. His eyes scanned Mike’s form from the top of his head down to his shoes. 

“You look good, Mikey” he said, flashing Mike a toothy grin. It made Mike want to be the sweat on Bill’s palms.

“I look old.”

“It looks good on you,” Bill rubbed his thumbs gently against the fabric of Mike’s shirt. Mike felt like bits of him were flaking off with each pass, as if he let Bill keep rubbing he would become sanded down into smooth glass. “I like the beard.”

Mike smiled, trying not to notice that Bill only seemed to like the part of him that was different. He thought about his hair, swept up and left in the trash at the barber shop. He wished he could be there in its place.

“Thought I’d try something new,” He shrugged and let Bill lead him inside.

They exchanged errant formalities. Mike learned that Audra gave Bill the house in the divorce, which he subsequently sold in exchange for a smaller one, closer to Richie and Eddie.

“I’m just one man, Mikey. I really didn’t need four bedrooms.”

_There’s two of us here._ The thought came from Mike’s chest, like a rumble, or a growl. He let the thought pass, unspoken. Bill, like him, had resigned himself to a life that held loneliness like a cup held water. Mike couldn’t pretend that he didn’t understand.

“It hasn’t been all boring,” Bill said as he handed Mike a mug full of tea that had the word _Fuck_ on it. Mike assumed that it was a gift from Richie. “I’ve taken up gardening.”

Bill’s kitchen had a small table that sat in front of a large sliding patio door. The sliding door was a thick glass, allowing for the room to be illuminated with sunlight. Mike tended to be on good terms with the Sun, however the way it illuminated the side of Bill’s face as he sat across from him awoke something truly ferocious and unhinged from within Mike. The Sun had become Mike’s enemy.

“And how’s that going for you?”

Bill laughed, a gentle sound “Well, most of my roses are dead. I think it was a problem with the soil.”

Bill turned to look out the patio window. Mike assumed that on the other side of the glass is where Bill’s defunct garden sat. He wouldn’t know, for his eyes were tracing the slope of Bill’s nose and the angle of his jaw.

“I think I may go out there today. Prune some of the dead stems, prep the new soil for replanting. I’d love for you to join me.”

“You’re going to keep with it?”

“Why not? It’s a therapeutic hobby.”

“But your roses died.”

Bill turned to Mike, locking eyes with him “They’ll grow back.”

Mike, once again, found himself melting under Bill’s gaze. His hand reflexively goes to the back of his head, rubbing his fingertips along the course edges of his buzzcut. _They’ll grow back._

Mike wondered if the same could be said for himself.

**~**

The last time Mike saw Bill’s face was when he was on the edge of sleep, the feeling of Bill’s lips being pressed against his cheeks. It was dreamlike in its tenderness.

Mike saw his face again seven hours later. For the past five months, Bill’s face has been the first thing Mike sees when he wakes up. It hasn’t gotten old yet.

Their legs are tangled together. There was a slight chill, Mike’s bare chest being exposed to the open air due to Bill’s hogging of the covers.

Bill slept on his stomach with his head crooked to the side and half of his face pressed into the pillows. His hair was mussed, streaks of gray jutting out in every direction. Mike wanted to put his fingers in it. He remembered he was in a place where he could do that.

Bill was never a light sleeper, but he hummed and rose to Mike’s touch as if he were expecting it and waiting for its arrival.

“Mornin’,” Bill mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

“Just about.”

Bill rolled over onto his back, the motion making it so now that the palm of Mike’s hand was flat on his face. 

“Noooo,” Bill groaned.

“Sorry handsome, sun’s up,” Mike laughed. He tried to pull his hand away, but Bill held it to face and kissed Mike’s palm.

“The sun can go fuck itself.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize celestial bodies were so talented.”

Bill chuckled, placing Mike’s hand against his chest and holding it there. “Five more minutes,” his voice was sleep soaked, distant. Mike wanted to bottle and drink it.

“It’s never five minutes with you. Five minutes turns into fifteen minutes which turns into three hours. We have things to do today.”

“You’ve been doing things for twenty seven years, Mikey, whatever it is can wait a few more hours.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Mike said. The argument fell on deaf ears. Bill had fallen back to sleep, still holding Mike’s hand against his chest.

For the first time in his life, Mike had found a fight that he didn’t mind losing. He let Bill claim his prize and sunk back into bed, using his free hand to pull Bill to his chest.

Mike closed his eyes. Bill was right, it could wait.

They had all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Go Follow Mars on Twitter! [@SPACERICHlE](https://twitter.com/SPACERICHlE)  
> Come say hi to me [@chernobrough](https://twitter.com/chernobrough)


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